You Go First
by anotherkate
Summary: Ron Weasley is thinking about leaving the Aurors, but a nasty voice in the back of his head has him worried about making any changes in the life he and Hermione have worked so hard to build. When he finally talks it over with Hermione, he realizes that change can be good - and that he's not the only one with something big on his mind.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or Sophie le Giraffe for that matter. Well, I do own one, but not the _rights_ to it. You know what I mean._

In a cluttered, stuffy office on the fourth floor of the Ministry of Magic, Ron Weasley slumped down in his uncomfortable desk chair, snuck another look at the clock on the wall, and groaned quietly. It felt like it had been quarter past four on a Friday afternoon for about three hours. Ron knew this was objectively impossible, but he lived in a magical world didn't he? Stranger things had happened. _Much_ stranger, actually.

But that didn't change the fact that he had nearly an hour left on the work week, and about four hours worth of paperwork staring him in the face. It had been a long, frustrating week that couldn't end fast enough, as far as he was concerned. Meetings, paperwork, briefings, _more_ paperwork, two false alarms, no movement on an unsettling case involving threats made against Squibs, and minor injuries sustained when investigating a nasty domestic dispute case. And more paperwork. Paperwork that actually made him feel nostalgic for a two-foot long History of Magic essay. How was that even possible? He frowned as he scrubbed his hands over his face. He had wanted to be an Auror since fourth year, and he had worked damn hard to make it happen. So why was it making him so miserable lately?

He glanced across the room to where his best friend sat at his own desk, scribbling furiously with a black quill. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Harry loved being an Auror, and was a damn good one, too. Of course, some of the more unpleasant aspects of the job bothered him as well - witnessing grisly crime scenes, often being away from his family, dealing with the endless bureaucracy. But it didn't seem to affect Harry in the same way. The violence they encountered only motivated him more. He accepted the extended assignments and office politics as a necessary part of accomplishing his end. Ron knew better than anyone that once Harry latched onto a goal he believed in, he would pursue it with single-minded intensity. Ron admired this in his friend, and for a long time he felt that the drive to succeed as an Auror was a goal that they shared. But lately he couldn't shake the gnawing, uncomfortable feeling that that was no longer the case.

At that moment, Harry put down his quill and rose from his desk with a loud scraping of his chair. "I'm off a bit early today," he addressed Ron, bending over to pick up a folder he had knocked off his desk as he rose. He made a haphazard attempt to straighten a few papers on his desk as he prepared to leave. "James's been up all night the last few nights, and Ginny reckons he might be getting his first year molars a bit early, so I'm off to find this giraffe that Fleur told her about."

"Er, yeah," Ron replied, disconcerted. He attempted to arrange his features into the face of someone to whom those words in that order made some kind of sense. "Uh, good luck?"

"Thanks, mate." Harry gave him a tired smile. Ron noticed the bags under his eyes that seemed ever-present since he had become a parent. _Poor sod_, he thought to himself privately. Harry looked left, then right, then picked up the cloak that was lying directly in front of him. "See you at the Burrow on Sunday?"

"'Course. See you then, mate." Most of the Weasley clan still gathered at the Burrow for Sunday dinner and Ron, in particular, was never one to miss it. Neither he nor Hermione were any great shakes in the kitchen and although he had been improving, he still wouldn't pass up his mum's cooking.

"Cheers." With one last grin and nod in his direction, Harry was out the door. Ron glanced at the clock again with a sigh. His shift really wasn't meant to end for another forty minutes, but he had a feeling he was going to get bugger-all done in the state he was in. He eyed the large stack of paperwork on his desk disconsolately. No matter how many hours he spent working at it, it always seemed bigger the next day. He spared a careless thought on whether some tosser in his department had cast a replenishing charm on it as a joke, before pulling the paper on top of the stack toward himself with a scowl and grabbing a quill.

Thirty minutes later and just as he finished scrawling in the remainder of the report, a inter-office memo landed neatly in front of him. He picked it up and flattened it out with a careless hand, immediately recognizing his wife's neat handwriting.

_Dear Ron,_

_I'm just finishing up one last thing here in the office and then I'll be heading out. I shouldn't be long after five o'clock. Would you mind picking up some dinner on your way home - perhaps Chinese? __No curry, please.__ Thank you!_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Ron folded the note and tucked it into the top drawer of his desk, which held an extensive collection of notes from Hermione. He debated for a moment on the unprofessional nature of cutting out before his shift ended. _Ten minutes early, that's not so bad_, he thought, grabbing his cloak. He'd stop by their usual Chinese place before apparating out of London and with any luck, arrive home just as Hermione flooed in. The thought of his lovely wife and Chinese takeaway put a grin on his face as he loped out of the office.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Ron appeared on the outskirts of Upper Bramblebury with a pop. He made his way through the village, his feet following the familiar path toward his home while his mind wandered. Ever since he had helped George (and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes) get back on his feet the summer following the War, George had made it known that Ron had a standing offer to join the family business, should he ever want it. He thought that maybe George could sense his recent mood, because he had pulled him aside at the Burrow last Sunday and reiterated his offer. Most people thought of George as a brash jokester - and he was, no doubt - but Ron knew he was also pretty perceptive and had a knack for guessing people's unspoken desires. It was part of what made him such a successful salesman and inventor. Ron had liked working with him, despite the constant ribbing that could only be expected from a older brother (and George in particular). He was used to that by now. George never made him feel like he was trying to replace Fred, or that he was just a pale imitation. It helped that Ron brought different skills to the table - he found that he had a pretty good head for figures and business planning. It all just seemed to make sense to him, rather to his surprise. And George found that having someone with a different outlook and attitude was helpful when developing new products.

_Unless George only offered because he felt sorry for you_, a nasty voice whispered at the back of his mind. _He probably figured you're rubbish as an Auror and wanted you to have a fallback._ Ron shook his head imperceptibly to clear it. No, George wouldn't offer him a job again if he thought it was bad business. At least, he didn't think so. They had worked really well together - well, as well as could be expected when your coworker has a habit of turning your eyebrows into caterpillars to liven up the work day. He missed working with George, in all honesty. Of course, he'd miss working with Harry, too, if he left the Auror Corps - but since they were on different teams, they mostly just waved at each other over piles of paperwork these days.

Ron glanced around at the quaint storefronts and houses as he walked. Upper Bramblebury was a mixed village with both magical and muggle inhabitants, which made both Ron and Hermione feel at home (it also meant he could walk through the town center with a steaming takeaway bag bearing the name of a London Chinese restaurant nearly 3 hours away by car without drawing a second glance). Ron and Hermione had rented a tiny flat in London when Hermione had graduated from Hogwarts five years ago. They both began working at the Ministry, enjoying living on their own together for the first time (not counting a dingy, drafty tent) and saving their money for the day they could buy their own place.

That day had come just a year ago when they finally bought their first home together. It was thrilling, it was exciting, it was _theirs_ - and they had done it themselves, earned every penny of it. Money, that was another thing to think about. But Ron had done the figures and frankly, he thought they'd be rather better off if he changed jobs. Wheezes was booming, with two locations and plans to add a third. The income was a little more uncertain, but there was still loads of growth potential. After all their careful planning and saving to buy a house, money was one thing Ron wanted to square in his head before he talked about any changes with Hermione.

_Hermione_. Ron's thoughts turned to his wife as he sighted his cottage in the distance. Ron knew that part of the reason he was wrestling so much with his thoughts was the fact that he hadn't talked about any of this with Hermione. Historically, he wasn't much good at working through things on his own. He tended to brood, and let things go 'round and 'round in his head until he wasn't sure what he really felt anymore. It had gotten him into a fair bit of trouble in the past, but he had learned that the best way to head the problem off at the pass was to hash it all out with someone else before he convinced himself of something that wasn't true. He always seemed to think best when he had Hermione to bounce ideas off of. He figured that was probably ironic, considering all the miscommunication of their school days. But it was what it was, and that was good enough for him.

What it all came down to was that Hermione was the most important person in his life, and he couldn't help but be nervous about her reaction to everything swirling around in his head. She had supported him unfailingly though his Auror training - she helped him study, of course, but more importantly, she had always believed that he could and would succeed as an Auror. Her faith in him had helped him get through the tough spots, had shored up his confidence when his own started to flag. He could still picture her proud, ecstatic face at his graduation, when he was rewarded for high marks in his theoretical coursework. He ears went slightly red as he remembered how they had celebrated well into the night. He had never been so glad to have a woman who was turned on by academic achievement.

_But if I took George's offer, I wouldn't _be_ an Auror anymore_, he thought.

But why had he wanted to be an Auror in the first place? The question plagued him - lately, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Back in school, he reckoned, it seemed exciting and adventurous. But his Hogwarts career had ended up provided practically enough excitement and adventure - and danger - for a lifetime. After the war, he had felt that he had to continue what they had started, making sure the last death eaters and their lousy ilk couldn't harm anyone ever again. And, he had to admit, he had felt like doing that would exact some kind of revenge for his brother's death. The rawness of his grief and anger had fueled him in those early days. But time went on, and even though he couldn't really say he had _accepted_ Fred's death, he _had_ come to terms with the fact that no matter how many dark wizards he apprehended or dueled, nothing was ever going to bring Fred back. Frankly, it just got dead depressing. And as confronting the evil and maliciousness that claimed Fred and so many others daily continued to wear on him, he had started to wonder if there was something else he could do to remember his brother, something that he was good at and that might make him a bit happier. But was he just whinging, being a quitter? Really, life was pretty much perfect. He imagined Hermione's look of disappointment as he told her he was leaving the Aurors to be a shopkeeper. _Don't rock the boat_, the nasty voice in his head warned. _You've already gotten more than you deserve._

As he approached the front door of his cottage, he discretely took out his wand and waved it in a practiced pattern, unlocking the door and double-checking the protective wards in a routine that had become automatic to him since the war. On entering, he noticed his wife's cloak hung neatly on the peg by the door and smiled unconsciously. He tossed his own cloak in the vague direction of a hook, toed off his shoes and walked into the kitchen where Hermione was pulling plates out the cupboard. She turned to him with a smile as he entered.

"Hi," she said softly, placing the plates on their small kitchen table and walking over to him to wrap her arms around his middle. Ron hugged her with his free arm and dropped a kiss on her lips.

"Hi yourself," he grinned down at her.

"Thank you for picking up dinner. How was your day?" she asked.

"The usual," Ron replied shortly, releasing his wife. "You?"

"Same," she replied, as she slid into her chair.

Ron set the paper bag on the table and started pulling out the various white paper cartons, placing one in front of his already-seated wife and the remainder next to himself. When the bag was nearly empty, he upended it, spilling out a few wrapped fortune cookies and packets of soy sauce as he dropped into his chair.

"Huh," he commented absently, looking at the number of cookies as he started opening containers. "Must've thought we were a family of three."

Hermione's head shot up, chopsticks frozen in mid-air. "What?" she squeaked with wide eyes. "Who said that?"

Ron gaped at her for a moment, surprised by her reaction. "The takeaway - they must've thought there were three of us," he explained, gesturing at the cookies. "Three fortune cookies."

"Oh, I see," Hermione replied, somewhat sheepishly. "I can't imagine why," she added dryly, eyeing Ron as he heaped the contents of several different containers onto his plate.

Dinner passed fairly quietly. Ron knew he was being less talkative than usual, but his mind was so full of what he planned to bring up after dinner, he didn't seem to have room in his brain for the casual conversation they usually enjoyed after the work day. Hermione was uncharacteristically quiet as well, but Ron knew she had been even busier than usual at work lately and had been feeling a bit run down. He was hoping for a relatively relaxing weekend of enjoying each other's company, primarily while in the comfort of their bedroom - that is, if she still wanted to speak to him after the next half hour or so.

Ron did his best to psyche himself up for the conversation as he cleared the plates from the table. He rinsed them in the sink as Hermione put the scant leftovers into the fridge and suggested a cup of tea. The fortune cookies lay forgotten on the counter. _This is it_, he thought, as he followed her into the living room. They both settled on the couch as they waited for the kettle to boil. _Now or never._

"Hermione..."

"Ron..."

Ron stopped short as he realized that they had begun speaking at the same time. He gave her a small smile as she laughed, a little nervously, he realized.

"Go ahead," she gestured to him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something, but you go first," he told her.

"No, you. Really," she said, looking at him expectantly. Ron took a deep breath.

"Well," he began awkwardly, trying to think of the right way to express how his heart just wasn't in being an Auror anymore, "I wanted to talk to you, because - I've been thinking a lot lately. About work. I'm... I'm not sure I want to stay on in the Auror Corps. I mean, I'm not sure if I'm happy there. I mean, lately it... hasn't felt right." _Oh Merlin, I sound like a complete twat._ "I guess - I guess I'm not sure why I'm doing it anymore. We've managed to catch the worst of the Death Eaters left alive at the end of the war, and I'm glad about that. That means something, I reckon. But now with Robards retiring, it's all bloody office politics and bureaucracy." He figured that glossing over the soul-crushing paperwork was an acceptable omission at this point. "When we _are_ out in the field, it just seems like we're rounding up the same wankers over and over. I dunno, I don't really feel like I'm making much of a difference." He paused. "And I hate being away from you." He glanced up at Hermione, who was watching him intently with an unreadable expression.

"I didn't mention it at the time, but George asked me about joining him at the shop again last weekend," he continued, looking down again. "And... and I'm thinking about doing it." He rushed on before Hermione could react. "I know I make good money with the Ministry, but I've ran the numbers, and I don't think we'll come out the losers if I join Wheezes'. And I know that being a shopkeeper isn't the same as being an Auror, but I feel like I was pretty decent at it before, and I'd be helping keep Fred's legacy alive. Something about it feels right. What do you think?"

Hermione stared at him mutely for a few seconds, opened and closed her mouth, and promptly burst into tears.

_Oh shit, oh shit_, Ron thought frantically as he knelt in front of his sobbing wife. This was pretty much the worst possible outcome he could have predicted. _You should have known this would happen_, the voice in his head reproved him. _Everything was perfect, and you had to mess with it._

"Hermione, please," he said weakly as he moved to take her hands away from her face and hold them in his own. "I'm sorry, I'm a complete arse. I should've talked to you about all this stuff sooner. Nothing's final, I haven't talked to anyone in the office about it, or anything - I don't have to change anything at all," he said, stumbling over his words a bit in an effort to reassure her.

Hermione hiccuped a few times and pulled one hand away to scrub viciously at the tears on her face. "Oh Ron, I'm so sorry," she choked out. She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly and in an instant the tears were gone as fast as they had started. "I'm honestly not upset, I'm really not. It's just these... it's just me right now."

Ron looked at her doubtfully. He was pretty sure whatever was wrong had nothing to do with Hermione. Once again Ronald Weasley had managed to royally cock up a good thing, reducing his wife to tears in mere minutes.

But Hermione only smiled at him and cupped his face with her hand. He leaned into her palm for a moment, glad that she seemed less upset, anyway. "Come and sit next to me," she said, patting the sofa cushion. Ron obediently rose from the floor, still holding his wife's hand. When he sunk down next to her, she turned sideways to face him, pulling one leg up and under her body. She reached out and grabbed Ron's free hand with her own, grasping it tightly as she looked directly into his eyes.

"First of all, you are not a complete arse. At least not right now," she amended, smirking slightly, "not about this. I think I understand why you've been feeling this way. It's one of the reasons that I felt I could never accept Kingsley's offer to become an Auror. You've accomplished so much there - so many dangerous wizards are in Azkaban because of the work you do. But I can understand that dealing with violence and threats and injuries on a daily basis must be very mentally taxing. And it must bring back some awful memories, considering what we went through. I've always found it amazing that you handle it so well."

Ron looked at her in surprise. "Really?"

"Absolutely. I'm sure I couldn't," she added sincerely. "But lately, I've been noticing that you seem a little down, or... conflicted about something. I was waiting for you to be ready to talk about it, actually."

Ron looked down at his hands, unsurprised that she seemed to read him like one of her favorite books. "I honestly - I wasn't sure what you'd think. Everything's going so well right now. And you were so proud when I passed the exams."

"Of course I was proud!" she exclaimed. "You had accomplished and excelled at something extremely difficult! But I was just as proud of you the summer after the war, when you helped George reopen the shop. You _saved_ that place, Ron - and that place saved George. You were brilliant. And I'm sure that with your help, it will be even more successful. But more than any of that, much more than the money, or the Ministry, or anything, I want you to be happy. More than anything in the world. I hope you know that," she said earnestly, squeezing his hands as she looked into his eyes.

"I am happy. _You_ make me happy," Ron replied rather gruffly, the tips of his ears turning red as they always did when someone complimented him.

She smiled shyly. "Good. And if working with George will make you happy, too, then I think it's a great idea."

"So you really don't mind?" Ron probed. S_he's probably hiding her disappointment to make you feel better_, that damned voice hissed in his ear.

To his surprise, Hermione's face split into a radiant, glowing smile. It was his favorite smile - the smile that he had seen in Australia as her parents' recognized her face for the first time in months, the smile that had walked down the aisle towards him on their wedding day, the smile that he had carried laughing through the very front door he could see behind her now. It was the smile that fueled his patronus and featured in his most beloved dreams.

"Ron, I couldn't be happier. You see," she continued with a waver in her voice, "there's another, very important reason that I'm thrilled you won't be going out on long, dangerous missions anymore..."

She never looked away from his eyes as she pulled his hands, still joined with her own, towards her and placed them gently over her stomach.

Time seemed to slow down as realization set in. All his senses seemed to sharpen - he could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears, saw every fleck of light in Hermione's eyes, felt the warmth of her stomach under his hands as they started to tremble. He could feel an incredible swell of emotions rising to the surface.

"Hermione?" he asked hoarsely, searching her eyes for confirmation.

She nodded rapidly, still beaming, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye as she blinked.

"Hermione!" he cried as he lunged at her, gathering her up in this arms as tears pricked behind his eyes. Someone was laughing, and someone was crying, and someone was repeating "I love you, I love you" and maybe they were both doing all of those things together in a perfect, euphoric moment. His head was spinning with a crazy, exhilarating joy that felt like it had to burst out of him somehow. He kissed her then, feeling all the happiness coursing through his body and hers as well.

He pulled away from the kiss slowly, forehead resting against hers, smiling with his eyes closed. In that moment he realized how foolish he had been to worry about change. That irritating bloody voice in his head had him doubting himself as usual, afraid to upset the status quo as if the life he had built with Hermione was a house of exploding snap cards: perfect but fragile. Bollocks. It couldn't be more wrong. Life _was_ change. Even the things he knew were constant and rock solid, like the love he shared with Hermione, had the capacity to grow and expand and deepen with every passing day. Wasn't he still amazed that he could wake up next to his wife every morning and love her even more than he did the night before? He had thought their life together was perfect, but maybe perfect wasn't the right word, if it meant that things couldn't get better. After all, it was about to change in the most complete, amazing, terrifying way, and he was giddy with happiness. That stupid voice could get stuffed. Perfect wasn't meeting a specific set of circumstances that had to be maintained, holding tightly onto the present and fearing what the future could bring. Perfect was every day that he spent with Hermione, having the opportunity to meet every challenge and adventure together the way they had since the age of eleven, falling deeper in love and building a life that was uniquely, beautifully theirs.

He untangled his fingers from her hair and replaced them reverently on her still-flat stomach, looking down at them in wonder. She leaned into him, kissing the top of his head.

"_Ours_."


End file.
